


Noeline's Drabbles

by Zendelai



Series: Dragon Age One-Shots, Drabbles, and etc. [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabbles, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:18:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 9,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zendelai/pseuds/Zendelai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles involving my first Inquisitor, Noeline Lavellan, and her adventures among the Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fight or Flight

The staff beckoned her, offering protection from the most unusual of situations that she had found herself in.

At that moment, she had two primitive options: fight or flight.

Without allowing her wide-eyed gaze to leave the rising demon, she crouched onto her haunches to grasp the simple wooden staff. She pressed her weight into it and pulled herself up to her full — albeit far from imposing — height.

To her left was a narrow, frozen river, glittering an eerie green in the glow from the breach. She hadn’t much experience with demons, but she believed that she could outrun one. Yet where would she go from there? These breaches were something that, evidently, she was destined to play a role in. Was it her place to run before her path had been chosen for her? 

A cry was heard from her left, and from her peripherals she could see the Seeker struggling in her sole war against two encircling demons. Did the Ancestors not preach altruism? What would her Keeper say if she saw Noeline allowing another being to suffer, regardless of the circumstances?

Grasping her staff firmly, she directed a bolt of lightning at the nearest demon, who spun to face her.

Her path had been chosen.

She would fight.


	2. Trust

Of one thing Noeline was absolutely certain: she did not trust ex-Knight Captain Cullen, not one iota. 

Trust wasn’t something Noeline gave away easily. Since the moment when she had woken in chains, she had been weary of everyone she had met. They were kind enough and seemed to have good intentions, but she wasn’t foolish enough to believe in those who thought her guilty without sufficient evidence.

Cullen, however, possessed an air that warned Noeline that she would need to watch her back in his presence. It wasn’t that Cullen was a bad person, per se; he seemed to be a good man, dedicating himself to the Inquisition. It was that, as a mage, she had an inherent distrust for any templar. 

Especially one who was once a Knight Captain that had been part of an attempt to invoke the Right of Annulment twice: once in Ferelden, and once in Kirkwall.

She nervously rubbed the back of her neck as she watched him argue with the Chancellor about some holy matter or another that she frankly couldn’t bother herself with. Their persistent belief that she was some sort of herald of their divine prophet was foolishness to her; she was as mortal as the rest of them, just a woman in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

For the moment, she would have to have faith in Cullen; he was one of her advisors, after all. 

However, she would be sleeping with one eye open while she remained in Haven.

—

Cullen’s brow furrowed as his eyes followed Noeline, her lithe form entering the keep.

Her movement was marvelous. Slim appendages moved gracefully during each calculated step. Her appearance was closer to prey than predator, but he knew she could kill a man with her bare hands without breaking a sweat.

It was exactly why he didn’t trust her.

But did he have a choice? She had been thrust into this leadership role by a divine intervention that no one could yet comprehend, and she had taken every hurdle in stride. 

She was impressive, and it was exactly why she was to be feared.

His hand rested on the faithful blade at his side as he turned to once again face the village.

The weight of the world was on her shoulders, whether he trusted her or not, and he would do everything in his power to ensure that she succeeded.


	3. Beliefs

"It’s ironic, is it not?" 

Noeline turned to face Cullen; he was smirking. “What is?”

"That the Herald of Andraste is not Andrastian." He had just returned from the afternoon service; she had been notable in her absence, and upon departing, he had immediately noticed her, seated on the steps to the village, deep in contemplation. He stepped down to take a seat next to her. A harsh wind whipped from the East, blowing her short red hair in front of her face, and with an irritated grunt she tucked her hair behind her long ears.

"It is much stranger for me."

"I suppose it would be." He removed his sword belt and laid it beside him as the breeze ruffled his feathers. "If I awoke, surrounded by Dalish telling me that I was the Herald of Mythal, I would find myself rather confused as well."

Her eyes narrowed; never before had he noticed how bright they were. The green tones dominated, but there was a hint of blue as well. “You’re familiar with elven pantheon?”

Cullen smiled while he looked into the distance. “I was… close, with an elf once.”

She cocked her head quizzically. She could not simply accept his evasiveness. “Who?”

His tongue flicked out to moisten his lips. “The Hero of Ferelden.”

One brow raised, nearly to her hairline. “You knew the Hero of Ferelden?” 

He turned to her, the scarred corner of his lip lifting into a smirk. A strange urge fluttered at the depth of her stomach to reach out and touch it, and she balled her fist to stop the bizarre instinct. “I was a young templar in the Circle of Ferelden, the Circle where she resided.”

Right. Noeline should have known that. She was educated on the tale of the Hero. “Our religion is dying along with our people. It is comforting to know that there are those outside of our race who are knowledgeable in our ways.”

"Why choose a path without being knowledgeable of all of your options?"

"I…" Her mouth opened and closed as she was stunned speechless. Never did she imagine such a statement coming from a Templar, of all people. 

 _An ex-templar_ , she reminded herself. 

She stood up suddenly, overwhelmed with the admiration that she felt for the man before her. “I have matters to attend you.” She nodded at him briefly. “Thank you for the enlightening conversation, Commander.”

He smiled wryly. “To them, I am Commander. To you, I am Cullen.”

"Thank you… Cullen."

Her brow set into a furrow, she made her way to the Requisitions table.

Perhaps she had mistrusted too quickly.


	4. Torn

In Noeline’s eyes, Blackwall was the most curious member of the Inquisition. 

Oh, Sera was curious, in her own way; her rapid-fire personality and curious poetry made her a quirky addition to the troupe.

Solas was also a curious creature, with his quiet dignity and unusual curiosity towards the mechanisms of the Fade.

Varric had his stories, Cassandra had her family, Leliana had her secrets, Josephine had her nobility, Vivienne had her pride, Bull had his dedication. Each possessed distinctive personalities and traits which made them both curious and strong-willed.

Yet Blackwall, the Warden, was the man she understood the least.

How could a man so readily accept — and love — a position where death is inevitable? He had divulged in her that the position as a Grey Warden was preferable to whatever had happened in his previous life. What, then, had he done in his previous life to make his position so desirable?

Perhaps it was simply his inclination towards duty and purpose that made him so fascinating.

Or perhaps it was his quiet demeanor as he lingered in the shadows, observing those so closely who milled around him with their attention elsewhere. After all, his analysis of Cullen had been so close to her own that she couldn’t help but depart from their conversation slack-jawed.

The night after his arrival was a sleepless one.


	5. Time

Noeline had learned that in the Inquisition, there are occurrences which fall under the spectrum of “normal”: closing rifts, herding druffalo, and gathering mysterious shards were the first few that came to mind.

This, however, was as far away from the spectrum of “normal” as she could possibly fathom. 

In her youth, when her clan gathered around the communal fire to exchange stories, endless tales had been regaled about the heroics of the Hero of Ferelden — who, coincidentally, was an elf and a mage, just like herself.

"The Hero spent weeks in the Deep Roads, searching for a long lost dwarven Paragon."

"The Hero cured a Dalish clan of werewolfism."

"She was trapped by a Sloth Demon in the Fade, yet she vanquished it and escaped!"

Noeline was quite sure that not even the Hero herself had traveled through time.

Perhaps one day, the Dalish would weave their own tales about this day; how the “Herald of Andraste” (Creators she despised that title), at their darkest hour, was forced a year ahead in time.

It sounded far-fetched, even to her whilst she experienced it.

Her fiery gaze probed Dorian, her expression cross as she felt the sewer water seep through her robes. The mage proceeded to cast his gaze downward, frowning at his own soaking wet attire. “These were my favourite robes,” he grumbled.

Noeline had to repress a smile; his humour was refreshing in this dire situation. “It must have been my lucky morning when I picked my  _least_ favourite robes.”

"I am glad to hear they’re your least favourite, they’re ghastly." 

She rolled her eyes dramatically, turning from Dorian to trudge through the waist-deep water. 

At least if she’d be stuck in the future, it would be with someone with a sense of humour.


	6. Family

Noeline was troubled as they made camp that evening. 

She sat at the edges of the campfire, watching the flames lick the roasted nug on a spit as the last of the daylight disappeared from the evening sky in a flash of orange and yellow to be replaced by the first twinkling stars. Cole was listening intently to Bull tell a story of his past failure, and Solas was nowhere to be found.

She tented her fingertips and rested her elbows on her knees, gazing past the camp into the treeline. It wasn’t until Solas sat beside her, quietly, that her reverie was broken.

"What troubles you, Inquisitor?"

Solas was an intriguing man, always searching for answers to questions that were beyond his reach. Although he had limited experience with the living, he could read her like a book. It was a comfort to have one so understanding among her team of strangers, although it had the potential to be disconcerting when she felt the need for secrecy.

Her gaze fell to her hands; for a small woman she had long, spindly fingers, calloused along the palms with more than a few splinters from her staff. “The Dalish.” She began quiety. “When I first saw a Halla, I knew we were close to a Dalish camp, and my heart yearned to be with my — our — people once again. Yet when we arrived… I was an outsider for my relations with the Inquisition.” A deep line appeared between her brows. “I was a  _shem_.”

"Lethallan," he hummed soothingly. "You’re not a shem, you are what the Dalish aspire to be; why do you think you were chosen to be sent to the Conclave? Yet they gravitate towards the familiar, ostracizing that which they do not understand."

"This has all been so… unfamiliar for me. I was taken from a life that I knew and tossed into another with the weight of Thedas on my shoulders. When I saw that camp, I hoped that, for one moment, I would be able to be who I was before the Inquisition. I thought I could go back to my family again."

He squeezed her shoulder, and when she turned to face him, he was smiling warmly at her. “The Inquisition is your family now.”

She felt warmth blossoming at her core. As wanderers, the Dalish considered their family to be their home. But perhaps Solas was right; she still had a family, but this one looked a little different, and she was the Keeper instead of the second. 

When she glanced across the fire to see Bull embracing Cole, the spirit wearing an expression of pure surprise, she realized that perhaps having a new family wasn’t such a bad thing.

Not a bad thing at all.


	7. Exercises

"Ah, Inquisitor? We’ve got a problem. A big one." 

"I’m aware," she impatiently seethed. Varric was damn right that they had a big problem. Red lyrium was being smuggled right under their noses, and these Red Templars were about to become a very big problem very quickly. After the horror Varric experienced in the Deep Roads with his brother, he should know that. 

Varric’s response was strained. “No, you’re not.”

Her brow set in a deep furrow, she turned to face him, readying a snappy retort. Did he truly think she lacked the knowledge of the capabilities of red lyrium? Although she had limited experience of its effects firsthand, she —

Her muscles froze when she realized that she had been a fool.

Their problem wasn’t just a big problem.

It was a  _giant_ problem.

"Be calm," she hissed, holding her palms opening in a placating gesture. Blackwall and Cassandra froze in place, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. The giant — there were three of them, the realization causing her heart to pump in a painful staccato — had yet to spot them, but she had no desire to speed up that process. The one nearest to them turned away momentarily when it spotted a fennec, and Noeline cried out, "Run!"

Her heart leapt to her throat as she spun on her heel and took off towards a ruined building, silently praying that the Creators protect them from the giants. She had heard of them countless times in lore (“they’ll suck the skin off your bones while you’re still alive!”), but never in her wildest dreams did she imagine that she would see not one, but  _three_ of them. 

As she ran, further and further into the ruins, her lungs began to burn and her legs ached. Only when she realized that she only heard two heavy pairs of footfalls, and not three, did she slow down. 

"We’re clear, Inquisitor," Cassandra called from behind her.

Noeline doubled over, clutching her knees and gasping for breath. She realized with a pang that she was the only one short of breath after their sprint. When she regained the ability to speak, she muttered, “That one for your books, Varric?”

—

It was a bright, albeit breezy, morning on the battlements. Cullen’s arms were across his chest as he observed a group of soldiers practicing their stances in the courtyard. 

Although command suited him, he ached to be a part of the action again. He missed the feeling of sinking his sword deep into an enemy’s chest and watching the life escape from their eyes. 

However, there was little else he missed from his former life.

 _Except for the lyrium_ , a small voice in the back of his mind reminded him. Too frequently that voice returned, bringing with it an unstoppable ache in his head, reminding him of what he had given up — and why.

Hearing rushed footsteps behind him, he straightened his back and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. Although strictly ceremonial, its weight at his side was a comfort. His eyes narrowed when he realized that the person approaching was the Inquisitor, and she seemed to be gasping for breath.

"Inquisitor?" He inquired, raising a brow. "Is everything alright?"

She slowed to approach him, and he watched a bead of sweat slide from her brow down her cheek. Her normally alabaster skin was red with exertion. “Yes,” she huffed, pacing in place. She held up a hand and closed her eyes to indicate for him to wait while she recovered. 

What in the name of Andraste could warrant such a hurry? Was it an emergency? Why must she tarry while she regains herself?

"It’s Cassandra," she managed to gasp. "She has me on a new training regiment after we ran into some dragons. As she put it, I’m ‘embarrassingly unfit for an Inquisitor’. Now I must complete a lap of the battlements every morning."

Cullen had to purse his lips to withhold the laughter that threatened to overflow. Patting his sides, he commented, “You have been putting on a few pounds since Haven.” He was being facetious, of course; as an elf, she was very thin and lithe. 

She pointed a warning finger in his direction. “Watch your tone, Commander, or I’ll have you running laps with me.”

They laughed together before she set off, resuming her exercise.

He would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that he watched her derriere in retreat.


	8. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble is frankly little but shameless smut.

Cullen was restless.

His pacing wore a hole in his office floor, back and forth, until the sun dipped beneath the horizon and night arrived in full. When the lighting became so dim that he nearly walked into his desk, he lit a series of candles and resumed.

Every moment of his shared kiss with the Inquisitor this morning remained achingly fresh in his mind. The warmth of her lips, the strength with which her hands gripped his sides, her earthen smell, the heat of her body pressed against his own… He touched his lips with a fingertip, wishing more than anything that he could feel her embrace again.

What left him restless was his desire for more.

For weeks he had dreamed of the Inquisitor. All lean limbs, full lips, bright eyes… and that sensual smile that invited him in and left him wanting nothing less than every single inch of her.

His legs aching, he finally took a seat at his desk. It was covered in work that required his attention: maps, requisition forms, training schedules, reports… yet nothing at that moment could be as urgent to him as seeing the Inquisitor, even in the dead of night.

For a brief moment, he closed his eyes, rubbing his temples, willing the persist ache of desire to leave his conscience. For years he had pushed the forbidden fruit of desire away, but now it remained at the forefront of his mind.

His eyes flew open when he heard a tentative knock at his door. Who would be calling for him at this hour?

“Enter.” His heart lept into his throat, choking away his gasp, when the Inquisitor herself entered. She looked as worn as he felt, the dark circles under her eyes accentuated by the blue in the irises above them. He swiftly stood, bowing to her, but she averted his gaze. For the first time, she appeared to be nervous.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, closing the door behind her. “I see that I’m not the only one.”

Gingerly he approached her, craving the proximity to her. “I had a certain elf on my mind,” he confessed, hoping he was not too forward, hoping she would not run.

Her eyes met his, and there was a fire ablaze in their depths. She was like lyrium to him, his desire for her presence a song, and he found himself unable to resist. Unbidden, his hand reached up to touch her; any part of her would suffice, he simply needed to stroke her satin skin. He found her cheek and stroked it with his thumb.

“Lavellan…” he whispered.

“Please.” She closed her hand over his. It was cool, refreshingly so. “Call me Noeline.”

“Noeline.” He tested the word in his mouth; it felt both strange and familiar, as if he had been saying her given name his whole life. “Noeline, I—”

She stood on her toes and silenced him by closing her lips over his. His every nerve set alight, and he knew in that moment that he had never truly been alive until he met her. Her lips were soft and warm; his tongue slipped out to snag a taste and she opened her mouth to gasp. His hands found her hair and he wound his fingertips in the silken strands, holding on for dear life. She widened her lips, wordlessly begging for him to taste her more, and he obliged, whirling his tongue around her own. She tasted of mint leaves and something subtly sweet, and when she grabbed his back to pull him flush against her, he had to release her mouth to gasp for air before he became faint from the overwhelming sensation.

“Noeline…” he whispered again, her name a prayer on his Maker-defying lips.

“Cullen.” It wasn’t only a statement; it was a command. “Please.”

Desire coursed through his veins like medicine, lighting every stoked fire in his body. He grabbed her hips, so delicate beneath his war-worn hands, and pushed her against his desk, tipping a jar of ink. He threw his pauldrons to the floor, grasped her cheeks, and tasted her lips again, feeling her sigh beneath his kiss. For just a moment, he pulled back to admire her; her lips were swollen, and her gaze was begging for more.

“Bloody paperwork,” he growled, shoving the contents of his desk to the floor in one sweep of his arm. He heard more ink pots crash, but he barely registered it; in that moment, she was on his mind, and nothing else. 

She leaned back farther on the desk, her legs spread wide, and ran her tongue over her lips. His desire overwhelming, Cullen threw his pauldron off his shoulders and onto the ground. He growled, low in his throat, and grabbed the back of her head, lowering himself on top of her. He had taken leave of his senses to be replaced with only carnal desire for this woman; this small, powerful, unstoppable force of a woman. His hands, calloused and rough, searched for her waist and he lifted her top over her head. Noeline gasped as he trailed kisses up her torso, her back arching and a moan escaping her divine lips when he sucked on the soft skin beside her hips. Her skin was soft and clean, and he bit down with some force; she both giggled and gasped, a sound like music to his ears.

He wanted to taste every inch of her skin, he wanted to  _devour_  her.

His teeth reached her waistband and he bit down, pulling, slowly, revealing her inch-by-sweet-inch. His hands replaced his mouth and while he pulled off her leggings he trailed kisses down her legs, and then began working up, feeling her squirm the closer and closer his breath got to her womanhood.

She was down to her underclothes, and never before had he seen anything more magnificent. Her skin was milky, stretched marvelously over her long bones, her hair in a halo around her head. He rested his hand on her breast and her jaw clenched; he swiftly lifted her a think strip of underclothes to reveal a bare breast and he closed his mouth over the protruding pink nipple. She dug her fingernails into his hair, and again whispered, “Please, Cullen. Please.”

She wanted more.

He was a gentleman. He would oblige.

His breath left a hot trail down her torso, until he reached her lower underclothes. Her hands squeezed his scalp in encouragement; he licked the outside of her underclothes, his already-hard cock squirming as he received just an idea of her taste. He pulled her underclothes down her legs and climbed up to smell her womanhood; it was slightly salty with sweet undertones, and his pants became painfully tight as his cock became swollen with an insatiable desire. He swept off her underclothes and flicked his tongue out for a taste; she let out a muffled cry, covering her mouth with her hand.

As he began to lick slow circles around her center, feeling her build up like a coil, his willpower grew weaker and weaker. Tasting her, feeling her skin beneath her hand, caused a craving in his middle unlike anything he had every experienced. He slipped one finger inside her and she cried his name, not bothering to muffle herself this time, and he could stand the wait no longer. He stood, throwing his top aside, and he shivered when she sat up to caress his torso with a delicate touch. He dropped his drawers and, after allowing himself one more taste, he rested his hardness against his womanhood, requesting entry.

She grasped his neck to pull him down to her and kissed him while thrusting her hips forward, plunging him inside of her. His vision blurred as he registered the warmness, the wetness, the tightness. Every dream, every figment of his imagination, couldn’t have come even close to the perfection that was her.

He paused, pulling as much air into his lungs as he could muster, before he filled her completely. He roughly grasped her hips, her flesh malleable beneath his fingers, as he drove into her.

Her mouth had formed an O as she whispered his name, over and over, a bequest for him to give her more. And that he did, sliding in and out of her, until her back arched and her hands covered her face and she screamed “Cullen!” so loudly that half of Skyhold had to have heard but he didn’t care, no, not for one moment did anything else in the world register, for he was hers and she was his. Her walls tightened around him, over and over, until they collapsed and her tense muscles turned soft and she was left gasping for every last tendril of air.

He paused, leaning down to kiss her, to caress her breasts, to taste her neck. When she had recovered, she whispered huskily, “Don’t stop.”

Those two words were his undoing. Starting with a brisk pace he rocked in and out of her; she was even more wet than before, and as their lips crashed into each other his entire body was shocked with waves of pleasure coursing through him as he spent every ounce of his seed into her, whispering her name onto her lips, whispering “Noeline”.

—

Cullen shot up in his chair, gasping. A horrible realization hit him in a wave: he had been dreaming.

His brow was wet, and with a shock of shame he realized that he had spent himself in his sleep.

He groaned and leaned forward in his chair, resting his head in his damp palms.

Tomorrow was going to be a very long day.


	9. Brother

"Inquisitor, a word?" 

Noeline didn’t immediately recognize the voice; when she turned to the source, she was surprised to find herself facing Varric’s friend, Hawke. 

"Yes?"

He gestured for her to follow him to a higher point in the battlements, affording them a view of the stunning mountain landscapes laid out before them. Hawke leaned his thick arms onto the wall, gazing out with an unreadable expression.

"I didn’t expect Varric to get himself in trouble again so quickly," he began.

Noeline leaned on one arm to face Hawke. “He does seem to have a knack for finding it.”

Hawke’s gaze fell and his brow knitted; there was a hidden sadness behind his brusque demeanor. A past tragedy that he hid from those around him. He opened and closed his mouth, at a loss for words, before he pushed aside his vanity. “Varric…” His lips twitched. “Varric means a lot to me. He’s like a very short, smooth talking brother.” 

"He’s a good man," she stated.

"You have no idea." Hawke remembered how Varric would tip off every vermin in Lowtown so that Merrill could go home safely, how he would drop off sandwiches at Anders’ clinic every day, how he managed to make Fenris smile, how he would buy drinks for the whole bar for no damn reason… And how he had been there for Hawke, through Carver being forced to join the Wardens, through Fenris walking out on him, through his mother’s loss.

He had been more of a brother to him than Carver ever was.

Hawke continued, “Sometimes, Varric gets so concerned about others that he forgets to worry about himself.” His dark eyes met Noeline’s bright ones. “It doesn’t mean much coming from a man who’s dragged him out to fight dragons and blood mages but… keep an eye on him for me, will you?”

Noeline was touched, but not surprised. In Hawke’s short time in Skyhold, she had seen the protective way that he had watched Varric. Their friendship ran deep. “Of course,” she responded. “I can see that he means a lot to you. I’ll keep him safe.”

Hawke frowned. “Keep him safe from himself as well as others.”

She swallowed. “I will.”

Hawke pushed himself off of the wall. “I’m sure you have many duties to attend to.” He nodded courteously. “Inquisitor.” 

She had been on her way to Cullen’s office, but she decided then that challenging Varric to a game of Wicked Grace first would be best.


	10. Fading

"Report for you, Commander." 

Cullen bristled. In a battle such as this one, every report could turn the tide, for better or for worse. “What is it?”

The Officer licked her lips and shifted her weight. She was nervous, and subsequently he became nervous too. “It’s the Inquisitor, ser.”

His eyes narrowed. The Officer continued, “She’s… we’re not certain of exactly what happened, ser, but it appears that she fell into a rift and is now in the Fade.”

Every muscle in his body tensed, the sudden rush of adrenaline painful. “She what?” He snapped. The Inquisitor was  _in_ the Fade? Maker preserve them all.

The Officer’s voice shook. “She had found the Warden Commander, ser. The floor crumbled beneath them, and to stop the fall, she opened a rift before them. She took Solas, Blackwall, Varric, Hawke, and that Warden, Stroud, with her.”

Cullen loudly cursed, his hands balling into fists. He had to fight the urge to throttle the Officer, although the situation was far from her fault.

It was the fault of the damn Wardens.

He closed his eyes and took a series of deep, calming breaths. He needed clarity, guidance. With a quick flick of his wrist he dismissed the Officer, requesting for her to send Cassandra.

He prayed silently to himself, hoping to find protection in faith.  _Maker.._. _Creators… help her, please._

_Bring me back my Noeline._

_\--_  

Exhausted by the ordeal, the group paused for a break. Their limited rations were gone and they all felt the pangs of hunger and thirst, but they were wise enough to know not to ingest anything in this damn place. Noeline rested her weight on her staff, her eyes flickering between those that she had dragged into this mess with her.

It was better than falling to their deaths, she supposed. Didn’t make their current situation easier.

At least Solas looks content, she mused as she watched him circle the perimeter of their makeshift camp, his eyes alight with curiosity. They were all fighting for their lives, but Solas more closely resembled a fish who had finally found water. Although Noeline had been in the Fade countless times in her sleep, standing in it, becoming a corporeal  _part_ of it, only haunted her. 

She chanced a glance at Varric, who appeared as disturbed as she. As soon as he caught her eye his fear slipped away to be replaced by a reassuring smile. “Ready to move on?” he asked her. 

"Might as well. The sooner we get out of this place, the better." 

They marched in silence until they reached a forked path. One set of stairs lead down, and another lead up. She turned to Solas, one brow raised. “Up or down?”

"Always up," he said with a smile. She began to hoist herself up the stairs, but her ascent was halted when the Creators-forsaken nightmare began to taunt them again. This time, however, the taunt was directed at her.

"Lavellan," it purred. "Your clan is dead due to your inaction." She cringed, clenching her jaw. "Yet you desecrate their memories by fornicating with a human." It spat the last word, disgusted with her. "You are no Dalish. You are a shem."

As quickly as the nightmare came it disappeared, leaving the group silent. Doubtless, rumours of her relationship had begun to spread around the Inquisition, but until now, it had never been a direct topic of discussion. Judging by the stiffness of her movement and the hot tears that sprung into her eyes, upon their return, the rumours would become validated. 

That wasn’t what bothered her, though; her personal matters were hers alone. What bothered her was how the nightmare knew — it bloody  _knew_ — that she had dishonoured and disgraced not only her clan, but all of the Dalish people. 

She deserved this torture. 

"Inquisitor…" Blackwall muttered, resting a hand on her shoulder.

She brusquely pushed it away. Through clenched teeth, she growled, “Let’s move on.”

The sooner they found their way out of the Fade, the better.


	11. Hero Worship

"Lady Morrigan?"

She scoffed at the title. “Yes?”

"I’d like to formally introduce myself. My name is Commander Cullen Rutherford, commander of the Inquisition’s forces."

She slyly smiled at him. “I know who you are.”

He cocked a brow at her knowing tone. “Oh?”

"Oh yes. Although I don’t usually align myself with templars."

She always seemed to have a purr to her voice, although it was not strictly sexual; it was more like she had a secret that she was holding above his head. “I have left the Order. When did we meet?”

One finely shaped brow rose. “You don’t remember?”

She was playing with him, like a cat plays with a mouse. “Unfortunately—”

"Ah." She cut him off. "You wouldn’t have remembered. You had been tortured and captured by blood mages. When we spoke, you were nearing madness."

A wrinkle formed between his brows. “You were there?” She was either a Circle mage, or —

"With the Hero of Ferelden, yes." 

His mouth opened slowly.  _This_ was the infamous Morrigan, the Witch of the Wilds who accompanied the Hero? She was more tame, more refined than the woman from story. She had changed from the vision in his foggy memory. 

"You remember now," she said. 

"I do. It was not a time I enjoy recalling."

"Of course not," she said shortly.

"I will no longer keep you from your duties." Unsure of the proper way to address her, he bowed low. "Thank you for your time, Lady Morrigan."

"Cullen," she called out as he turned away. 

"Yes?"

"The Hero." She watched his expression fall; to this day, he missed her. Morrigan knew they had been… acquainted before the Blight. "I made her an offer, the night before we fought the Archdemon. It would have saved her life, while compromising her morals. She chose to die by her own terms rather than live by mine." She licked her lips. "She was an extraordinary woman, the Hero."

"That she was," he whispered.

"As is our Inquisitor."

He smiled; it was the smile of one discovering love. “She is.”

Morrigan nodded in dismissal. “Enjoy your evening, Cullen.”


	12. Fog

The fog laid heavy over the lake, obscuring anything beyond one’s direct vicinity, including the sun. It blocked out even sound, the bird’s song far away, the wind ceasing when it reached the proximity of the lake.

Seated at the end of the pier, Noeline dipped her toe in the water, watching as the blackness swallowed it. She slipped more and more of her foot into the tepid water until it disappeared completely; she pulled it back to the surface quickly, flicking droplets of water towards Cullen, who covered his face but laughed. 

"Bloody trouble making elves." He was grumbling, but smiling. 

"It’s more of a Dalish thing," she retorted. "We enjoy prancing through fields of wildflowers and stirring up trouble when we can. Keeps things interesting." 

"What  _was_ it like? Growing up in a clan?”

She dragged her toes through the water again, watching the small waves roll beneath her feet. “It’s like having a very large family that you spend all your time with. You hunt and gather together, you cook and eat together, and when the time comes, you travel together.” She gazed up at the vast expanse of the water before them; she knew if the fog was not so dense that she would be able to see the land beyond the lake, but for now, she could barely see the outline of the distant green blurs of the coniferous trees. “I didn’t grow up in Clan Lavellan. When I started showing signs of magical ability at a young age, they transferred me since my clan already had a Keeper and a Second.”

"That must have been difficult."

She shrugged. “At the time, it was. But moving between clans gives you a wider world view, and Clan Lavellan became my family.” He heard her trail off at the end of her sentence, her gaze falling.

"You miss them." A statement, not a question.

"Yes."

He wrapped a protective arm around her narrow shoulders, pulling her close. She had imbued the scents of nature around them, of pine, grass, and lilies. He felt her tremble and he squeezed her tighter, wishing that his touch alone could banish her grief.

She whispered, “Thank you,  _ma vhenan_.” Realizing what she had uttered, she pulled out of his grasp and sat up quickly, covering her mouth in shame. 

Cullen, however, was smiling; he had heard the elven term of endearment before, but never did he dream that it would be directed at him. “It’s alright,” he reassured her.

Averting his gaze, she fell silent, her throat tightening uncomfortably.

"Did I say something wrong?" He asked, tentatively touching her arm. 

She shook her head and replied in a strained tone, “No.” 

"Then what bothers you?"

She swallowed down the lump in her throat. “I shame my clan.”

"Shame them? How?"

Her gaze was downcast, and he could have sworn that he saw the normally tear less woman’s eyes grow moist. “By wasting my attentions on a shem.”

His throat tightened. He should have known this would happen. That the gap between their races would become too great. “I understand your loyalty to your people, Noeline, and I won’t get in your way.”

"No," she snapped, more aggressively than she attended. "I  _want_ this. I  _care_  for you. But the Dalish don’t take kindly to… breeding outside of our people. If they were alive, and if they knew that I had pursued relations with you, I would be exiled.” 

"You are certain that this — staying with me — is what you want?"

"Yes," she responded without hesitation. 

He stood, holding his hand for her. She took it and allowed him to lift her up. “Then we’ll start our own clan. Clan Lavellan-Rutherford. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

She smiled warmly, her bright eyes dancing. “It does.”

"In Clan Lavellan-Rutherford, you may care for who you wish." He pulled her close and whispered into her ear, " _Ma vhenan.”_

She giggled and pressed her lips against his.

She would always love and respect Clan Lavellan, but as it had been when she was a child, it was time to move on to another clan. 


	13. Rain

Noeline’s elbows were resting on the War Table as she scanned the map with razor-sharp eyes.

"We leave for The Fallow Mire on the morrow. Due to our reports of an additional Grey Warden object, I’d like Blackwall to accompany me there with Vivienne and Sera." She pushed off from the table. "Rest now, we depart at dawn." 

The following morning, as the sun was well over the horizon, Noeline paced before the gates to Skyhold, her grip too firm on her staff. Sera watched her curiously, and Viv appeared irritated by the delay.

Creators, where was Blackwall?

He was never late, not even when they were departing on the most foul of missions, and when she was making a trip to the cursed Fallow Mire almost specifically for him…

She let out a string of very unladylike curses.

"Shall I check the stables, Inquisitor?" Vivienne inquired.

"Allow me," Noeline grumbled. If he was still sleeping, he was about to get a cold bucket of water on his bed.

There was a crisp breeze in the air that morning, and she pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she stomped to the stables, her brow set in a furrow. In spite of their differences, Blackwall had become a good friend to her, one whom she trusted. 

It was simply so out of character for him to be late. Was something wrong? 

She realized as soon as she entered the stables that something  _was_  wrong.

When she found a letter in place of Blackwall, she knew that things had gone  _very_ wrong.

It read,

_Inquisitor, you’ve been a friend and an inspiration. You’ve given me the wisdom to know right from wrong and, more importantly, the courage to uphold the former. It’s been my honor serving with you._

She crumpled the letter in her fist, her face burning.

He left her, without a word of explanation.

This was not the Blackwall that she knew.

It was time for a change of plan.


	14. Dragon

A breathless messenger burst into Cullen’s office without warning. He doubled over, gasping for breath, clutching his knees.

"What is it?" Cullen demanded, his panic rising. He knew that Noeline had left for the Exalted Plains to track down the snowy wyvern for Vivienne; had something run amiss? A snowy wyvern was no enemy to underestimate.

"The Inquisitor, ser…" The messenger continued to gasp. They desperately needed messengers that were in better shape to run across Skyhold. "She felled a dragon."

"She what?" He asked, both concerned and incredulous.

"I received a report, ser. They encountered a high dragon on the Exalted Plains and she slayed it, ser. Cassandra had me report straight to you with the information."

 _Thank the Maker for that._ He would have to thank Cassandra later.

But for now… “Thank you, you’re dismissed.” 

As soon as the messenger was out of earshot, he broke into a bout of laughter.

Maker preserve him, he was falling in love with a dragonslayer. 


	15. Curly and I

Fighting at Noeline’s side was unexpectedly sensual. 

She was watchful like a hawk over every aspect of the battlefield, awaiting any change to the element of combat. The moment one of her compatriots was in danger, she would protect them with a barrier; the moment one of her enemies was vulnerable, she would bring the wrath of the heavens down on his head.

Cullen thought it was all quite marvelous, really. In that moment, no longer did she carry the burdens of Thedas, she only focused her efforts on surviving, on attaining her goals while remaining unscathed. Her fine brow would furrow, she would bare her teeth, and she would ask the elven Gods to provide her with the protection or fury that she needed. 

Were he not fighting his own Red Templars, he could have watched her all day.

—

Fighting at Cullen’s side was a bloody nightmare.

The man had no sense of self-preservation, and absolutely no idea of how many times Noeline had thrown barriers up for him without his knowledge. 

It was undeniable that there was a grace to his movement as he swung his sword, cleaving through enemy after enemy, seeking the vengeance that he so desperately deserved.

But did he have to be so damn reckless about it?

To make matters worse, he kept gazing at her and sending her smiles while they battled and would almost get himself knocked over in the process. If she didn’t love him so much, she’d want to smack him.

Her fears came to life, however, when a Behemoth barreled through the door out of the Keep. The monster lifted his arm, throwing Cullen aside as if he were as light as a feather, and from across the battlefield Noeline heard her love’s grunt of pain as he was smashed to the ground.

He didn’t move.

No longer did the battle around them matter; she knew that Solas would keep Cassandra and Varric safe. Pumping her legs she sprinted to where Cullen lay, motionless, her heart racing like a rabbit’s. She skidded on her knees to his side, crying out his name over and over. 

She nearly smacked him when he immediately rolled over, muttering, “Yes, my love?”

“ _Ma sa’lath!_ Do you wish for me to die young from heart failure?”

He chuckled, and the sound spread warmth through her limbs. 

"Please be more careful," she begged.

Varric, Cassandra, and Solas appeared behind them, all breathless.

Cassandra asked, “Are you alright, Cullen?” He nodded, and she held out a hand to help him stand.

"Andraste’s ass, Inquisitor," Varric grumbled, reloading Bianca. "Remind me to never let you and Curly fight side-by-side again."

"Don’t worry," Noeline said, sending a significant glance in Cullen’s direction. "If he doesn't want me to suffer a premature death, it won’t happen again any time soon."


	16. Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this as as birthday gift to the amazing pixelatrix!

The ache from endless hours at his desk persisted from his muscles through to his bones, so he stood to stretch, his knees popping in protest at the sudden change in position. He stretched his arms high above his head before attempting to reach down to touch his toes, a motion that his back simply would not allow. With a twinge of shame, he pulled himself upright and chose to go for a walk to pull himself away from the stuffiness of his office, even if only briefly.

Few wispy clouds marred the night sky, illuminated silver by the half moon. Within a few steps, his gaze was drawn to the Inquisitor’s balcony; soft candlelight glowed from within, and he could faintly make out her slight form, leaning on the balcony rail.

It appeared he wasn’t the only one kept up by work. Yet tomorrow she was to depart again for the Hinterlands, to hunt for Venatori, and her rest was vital for such a trip.

Perhaps a quick check-in to ensure she was well wouldn’t go amiss.

He slipped into the main fortress of Skyhold, passing Solas’ empty desk, Varric’s fireplace, and finally the empty throne, the moonlight from the window above casting it half in sepia tones, half in blackness.

Although she had insisted he was welcome to enter her quarters at any time, he still chose to knock, not wanting to startle her. When she didn’t answer – doubtless she couldn’t hear him from the balcony – he let himself in, calling her name when he was halfway up the stairs.

“Out here, Cullen,” she responded. She sounded both weary and exhausted, and concern rose in his chest.

When he reached the top of the stairs to take in her silhouette in full, he paused for a breath to admire this force of a woman who was changing the world, one day at a time. She was anything but imposing, with her lithe elven form, feet crossed where she stood, and short red hair thrown aside by the wind, revealing the large ears only he knew she was ashamed of.

Of her he know both so much, and too little.

“Sleep is evading you as well?” she asked, turning to smile at him. Beneath the smile he could see the tired darkness beneath the bright eyes that the smile didn’t touch.

“I find it difficult to sleep with so much work to do.”

Slowly he approached her, and her gaze once again fixed onto the training ground. When she spoke, her voice was so low it was nearly carried away by the wind. “Did I do the right thing?”

“When?” he inquired, leaning onto his forearms on the rail.

“Allowing the Grey Wardens to join us, after all that they had done.”

“They were not of their own minds.”

She sighed, her head hanging low. “We’re allying with those who turned to blood magic. How does it make the Inquisition look when we ally with blood mages?”

Determination crept into his voice. “We ally with any who oppose Corypheus. The Grey Wardens believe in putting aside the past to conquer the greatest evils, the Inquisition can do the same.” He reached over to touch a bare stretch of her arm; he could feel goosebumps on her fair skin. “Besides, the Grey Wardens are a well-trained faction and we can use all the help we can get right now.”

Her breath was shaky when she let in a long inhale. “You’re right. I can’t help but question my decisions every step of the way.”

A faint smile lifted the corners of his lips. “I’d be more concerned if you didn’t question your decisions.”

He was surprised when she stepped forward and threw her arms around his shoulders, burying her face in his pauldrons. Her words were muffled when she said, “I’d go mad without you, you know.”

“And I without you.”

Leaving her arms around him she pulled away, just enough to survey his expression. “You know,” she drawled, “I would sleep better with company.”

Low in his throat he chuckled. Although there was still an imposing pile of paperwork on his desk – duty rosters, requisitions, reports unending – they could wait until she parted on the morrow. “As would I.”

Grasping his hand she lead him to her bed, and his sleep thereafter was long and uninterrupted.


	17. Chocolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt on tumblr: Sharing a Dessert

With a slam the door to her quarters closed behind her, and resting her hand on her chest she tried to catch her breath, her corset frustratingly restricting.

The nobles’ snide comments replayed through her mind, reminding her far too much of the Nightmare they faced in the Fade; “Servant, fetch me a port, would you?” “A knife-ear is the Inquisitor? What  _has_ this world come to?” and her personal favourite, “I heard she bedded with the Commander. I  _do_ hope the Commander knows he can catch an  _infection_ from these  _elves_.”

To the room at large she declared, “I  _hate_ bloody nobles.”

“As do I,” the room responded, and she nearly jumped out of her skin, believing herself to be alone. When the room continued, “They keep pestering me about how suitable I would be for  _so-and-so_ ’s daughter, and this or that widowed noble,” she realized that it was only Cullen, and the silver-tongued nobles were turning her to paranoia.

“At least they don’t think you’re a servant,” she scoffed, hoisting up her skirts so she could dash up the stairs to him. She halted on her ascent when she spotted him, her breath taken away by how positively  _dashing_ he looked in his formal attire. The seamstress had outdone herself, suiting him in a form-fitting sapphire and onyx suit, contrasting strikingly against his golden hair and eyes.

Ancestors, years they had been together and he could still turn her into a star-struck youth with that crooked smile. By the way that his gaze softened and he began to sputter, she wondered if she still had a similar effect on him.

“You…” they approached each other tentatively, both holding back from the desire to rush towards each other to feel the other’s heat. “You are very far from a servant, and unfortunately for the nobles, I already have a perfectly good suitor.”

With his words, the nobles’ poison washed away from her mind. Why was their opinion of any import when she had  _him_?

He reached out a hand to her and she grasped it with a rapid need; he pulled her in close and began to spin her to the faint sound of music that rose from the floor, just as they had done those years ago at the Winter Palace.

Still their love was as fresh as an apple blossom tree in Spring, its first buds beginning to bloom.

Against his hard chest she rested her head, letting out a sigh of relief at finally being home and away from the whirlwind below. He pulled her in close, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of her head. He smelled of spice and metal, and something so faintly floral.

“Our party’s better,” she muttered into his chest. “No judgment and no nasty glares. But unfortunately, no cake as well.”

“My lady, do you think I would start a party up here unprepared?” She pulled away to gaze curiously into his twinkling eyes, and without releasing her hand he pulled her out to the terrace. Stars had just started to fill the night sky, and with the barely-present glow of the new moon their only light was from within. On the table he had laid out a large, moist slice of chocolate cake, two forks, and a pot of tea.

Her gaze drifting into his eyes, matter-of-factly she said, “This is why I love you.”

A brow cocked, he retorted, “The only reason?”

The corner of her lip lifted slyly when she responded, “Among other things.”

No longer having to put on the facade for the nobles, they sat on the same side of the table, their shoulders pressed together. He slid the fork into the cake and offered her the first bite, which she accepted gleefully. The cake positively melted in her mouth, so rich and sweet and filled with chocolate, and she let out an audible groan, causing Cullen to chuckle.

She could be entirely herself around him, groaning at chocolate and all.

They exchanged bites of the cake and sips of the tea until their stomachs were filled to the brim. Resting her head on his shoulder, he wrapped her arm around her waist, and they surveyed the night.

After a lengthy and comfortable silence, Noeline asked, “Do you think Josephine needs us down there?”

“Frankly, I don’t give a damn.”


	18. An Absent Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt on tumblr "An absent look or touch".

The words on the page before her blurred as her attention wavered. Guilt was her immediate response as she jolted back to consciousness; this paperwork was important, approving additional troop rotations through the Emerald Graves to clear out the last of the Freemen, yet her thoughts were far from the Emerald Graves. They were firmly fixed on her quarters, specifically her bed, and what had transpired in it the night before.

A flash of memory – bare skin, slick with sweat – was enough to bring a flush to her fair cheeks. 

No. None of that. This was not the time for that. Now her thoughts must be focused on refugees, the Emerald Graves, Freemen.

Her thoughts must not be of strong, broad hands, calloused by a sword’s pommel, grasping beneath her bottom to hoist her up and –

Refugees. Freemen. Troops. Nothing else. Definitely not tender kisses rained down her neck, sending shivers down her spine. And most certainly not a hand plunging into her hair while he cried out her name, over and over –

Now her face was burning and she had completely forgotten what the paperwork in front of her was.

To make matters even worse, the very man possessing the strong hands and gentle lips so vivid in her memory had just entered the War Room.

Cullen’s gaze fixed on her, and fire passed between them; she knew then that he, too, dreamed of her, and the night of passion that they had shared.

However, Thedas always came before pleasure. Troop movements through their target areas were discussed with Cassandra, the relationship between Nevarra and Tevinter was discussed with Josephine, and Empress Celene was discussed with Leliana.

All the while, fleeting, hungry glances were exchanged between Noeline and Cullen. 

For when business was over, pleasure would resume, and at the agonizingly slow pace of these meetings, the end – and the continuation of what they had started the night before – couldn’t come soon enough.


End file.
